


6-From a High Place

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 2, Trials and Errors [6]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-02
Updated: 2001-01-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruck learns how much the past can shape the present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	6-From a High Place

Bruck set his tray down at the end of a table full of padawans he knew only distantly. They were quite a bit younger than he and appeared to be agemates and friends, from how closely they were clotted together at the other end, laughing and hooting, discussing something intently—probably the upcoming combat competitions; he didn’t want to disturb them, but the refectory was crowded at the moment and this seemed like one of the few comparatively empty spots at the padawan tables. Ben would be joining him shortly and they wanted a relative amount of privacy—or at least he did. After last night, he was still uncertain of Ben’s response, especially since he had only contacted Bruck late this afternoon with a message to meet for dinner. He’d expected a face-to-face call earlier in the morning, and when it hadn’t come by the end of his first class, he’d begun to worry. It wasn’t like Kenobi to leave him dangling like this, not after what had gone on between them during the last few days.

The other end of the table went silent as he sat down and he looked over to see thirteen eyes staring at him as though he’d suddenly grown a third one himself. Disgust and repugnance was clear in some of the more readable faces and what countenances didn’t show it, body language did, as several of them turned their backs on him. Low murmurs replaced laughter.

Suddenly none of the food on his tray looked very appetizing.

The padawan holonet had always been fast, but he’d never seen it this fast. He’d have to do what he’d always done and bluff it out. He dug in, not waiting for Ben. The food, normally at least savory if not extravagant, tasted like sand in his mouth.

Then Garen Muln, one of Ben’s oldest friends, walked by, giving him a look that froze him like a startled animal in a spotlight. Muln loomed over him for a moment, whispering, “You’re a disgusting piece of offal, Chun. The Council should never have let you become a padawan,” and walked on.

It was starting again, he thought in a sick panic, just when he thought he’d gotten past it, when he thought they’d all outgrown it, that he’d outgrown being bothered by it. It wasn’t right. He was 22 now—so were they, mostly—too old for this sort of pettiness. He felt the adrenalin surge through him, roiling his stomach and the food in it, and took a deep breath to dispel the rage he felt rising in him. Closing his eyes, he let the emotions roll through him and out into the Force until he felt calm again, if not at peace. When he opened them again, the first thing he saw was Bant, Tianna, and another of Ben’s friends, Norika Dan, all staring at him from another nearby table, expressionless.

Tianna. That explained it. She was a healer’s apprentice and she’d been there when he and Qui-Gon had brought Ben into the Halls that day, sobbing, wrecked, finally broken at the end of his pain trials. She would at least suspect what he’d done, if she’d seen the injury reports, and know for certain what effect it had had on Ben. All of them would have seen the results of the last tenth on Kenobi, but only Tianna would have been in a position to guess the circumstances and the people involved. And she needed to learn to keep her mouth shut.

He started to rise from the table intending to say a word or two to that effect, felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up into Ben’s face, finding that slight, gentle, irritating, mischievous smile on it. Kenobi sat down next to him, scooting him over on the bench and putting his tray down beside Bruck’s own, not making a show of it, but not hesitant either. Before picking up his utensils, he reached up and ruffled Bruck’s hair roughly, then dug into his food. After a stunned moment, Bruck followed his example and began to at least pick at his own meal. It took everything he had not to look up at the multiple eyes he could feel watching them from both the end of their own table and from across the room. Ben seemed grandly oblivious.

“They don’t understand, Bruck,” his lover said quietly between bites. “None of the others have gone through their pain trials yet. You and I were among the first in our year. Garen will probably be next. Bant and Nori have got a ways to go yet, I think, and Ti doesn’t have to do it at all. And the little ones down here,” he nodded toward the end of the table, “don’t even imagine they exist. All they know is that some rumor’s going around that you did something terrible to me. Ti shouldn’t have said anything to anybody. Let me take care of it, though, not you. She won’t hear it from you.”

He nodded quietly, unable to find his voice for the moment, and concentrating on getting down the next mouthful. “She may not hear it from you, either,” he said after a time.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it quite clear that it’s far better she hear it from me than her master; he’ll have to reprimand her if this doesn’t stop soon. She must know that.”

“Don’t count on it,” Bruck warned, doubting still that she’d see it that way. While it was true that Ben was one of the most respected senior padawans, Bruck was one of the least liked and knew it, and he doubted even Ben would have much influence on anybody’s opinion in this case.

“This was one of the reasons I wanted to meet you for dinner here,” Ben went on. “It wasn’t like this at midmeal, but it was building.”

“Yeah, in classes everything was fine,” Bruck agreed. After a moment, he ran his hand lightly down Ben’s spine and was rewarded with a barely perceptible shiver. “You okay?” he asked quietly. “All right for the meet tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t contact you sooner. We slept late,” Kenobi grinned, addressing the real question, and Bruck couldn’t help joining him, feeling relief blossom in his chest, erasing some of the tension. “Qui spent half what was left of the night healing everything.”

“What did he say?”

“What you knew he would, smart boy: that it wasn’t something he could give me, but it wasn’t really an issue.”

“So how are you now?”

The grin faded and the other padawan’s expression turned serious, a little troubled. “I don’t know yet. I thought it would be all right in the morning, but it’s going to take me a little longer than I thought to absorb and work it all out. But that’s not your fault,” he was quick to add. “I couldn’t have gotten through this without you.”

“You could have if you didn’t always have to make everything such a freaking crisis,” Bruck chided, elbowing him.

“I only do that to keep you occupied and out of trouble,” Kenobi shot back.

“Didn’t exactly work this time, did it?” Bruck pointed out, stabbing something unidentifiable on his plate rather savagely.

Kenobi put one hand over his. “That’s not your fault either. Look, they’re my friends. They’re just being overprotective. Don’t let it get to you. Your friends aren’t—”

“My friends don’t even know the Jedi do this, Ben,” Bruck snarled suddenly, hands curling into fists, the heat and manner of his response startling both of them. “I don’t supposed you’ve really noticed, but the only friends I’ve got now are outside the Temple. When I’m here and you’re not, I go out most nights with people from the university or one of the other districts, or I stay home alone. You’re the only one of my peers in the Temple who’ll have anything to do with me. This just gave everyone a reason to be openly hostile.” He closed his mouth suddenly, as though he had somehow said something wrong, and turned away.

Kenobi looked at the other young man with a stunned expression that turned rapidly to confusion. “But Davrin and Aalto—”

“Davrin and Aalto were never really my friends,” he mumbled, shoving his tray away, arms folding across his stomach. He felt sick now, lightheaded, almost feverish, his heart pounding. Why had he started this? Why hadn’t he just let it lie? But now that it was coming out, he couldn’t seem to stop it. “Where were they when Leth died? Or afterwards, when I was masterless?” he went on bitterly. “And your friends have never liked me, with good reason, since I made your life hell when we were kids, and nearly killed you and Bant. Haven’t you noticed they don’t hang around you when we’re together? They’ll stop hanging around you at all, if you stay with me.”

Ben stroked heavy fingers through the white thatch of Bruck’s padawan haircut and down his bare neck, cupping it. “I don’t notice much of anything else when I’m with you,” he said gravely, resting his forehead against Bruck’s temple. “And if my friends are that biased, well, they were never my friends, either, were they? I’m not going anywhere, B-Boy.”

“Don’t say that,” Bruck shivered, still hugging himself, feeling worse by the minute. It was just the kind of thing Ben would blurt out and hold himself to later, his own sense of loyalty making it impossible for him to understand why Davrin and Aalto had dissociated themselves from Bruck’s taint—especially Aalto, who was probably bound for a bad end himself. Bruck never wanted Ben to have to feel abandoned that way, certainly not because of him. _Should have kept your mouth shut, you fool,_ he told himself. He’d never meant to say any of this to Ben. It wasn’t his problem, wasn’t something he should have to worry about it. But Garen had really unnerved him.

Bruck stood up abruptly, face ashen. “I have to go, Ben. I—I’ll talk to you later,” he whispered, looking panicked and sick, leaving his tray behind.

 

* * *

 

 

Bruck felt as though he’d been in the Room of a Thousand Fountains for days, though it was in reality only a few hours. It was his own thoughts that had drifted through a lifespan, not time itself, though it made him feel just as weary. The sun was just going down now and the lights in the garden mimicked the shift to red, throwing everything into the stark relief of stage lighting, making it feel more artificial than it usually did, a precarious illusion like his own right to a place in this life.

He didn’t come to these gardens often, and this was the first time he’d been to this particular spot since . . . so many years ago when Ben had first saved his life. He’d nearly fallen from the bare rocks of this waterfall, fighting Kenobi for Xanatos, years ago. He’d been a fool then, and thought he hated Ben, thought he’d never be chosen as a padawan, thought it was somehow Kenobi’s fault and not his own. And even though they’d fought in earnest, both their lives at stake, when Bruck had teetered on the edge of the rocks in the bed of the falls, Ben had reached out and grabbed him. Despite the risk and the ill will between them, Ben had reached out as though they had been friends, pulling Bruck away from the edge and into his arms.

Everything had changed in that one moment. Bruck was certain of it, though Ben, as usual, was unaware of the magnitude of his gesture, so natural had it been. Spinning him out at arm’s length, he’d hit Bruck hard with the butt of his saber, enough to knock him out, tied him with his own sash, then freed Bant—who was standing over him with his own lightsaber when he came to—and went on with Qui-Gon to get the Healing Crystals out of the Temple’s fusion furnace. It should have been all over for him then. They should have stripped him of any affiliation with the Temple and turned him out, or sent him back to his father. But they didn’t.

Instead, another of Qui-Gon’s friends, Knight Tahl, had spoken for him, from what motive he never knew, and urged the Council to let her find him a master. For a tenth he’d been confined to his room, under guard, shunned, shamed, miserable and afraid. Only Ben had come to see him. And he had hurt so much that he’d only lashed out at Ben until he went away again and didn’t come back.

One day, Knight Tahl had appeared in Bruck’s quarters with Leth, who had been the padawan of yet another friend. Leth, it turned out, had been watching Bruck for quite some time and regretted not having spoken sooner. Could she make it up to him now by taking him as her padawan learner? she asked. He had been so desperate not to lose everything that he had said yes, despite some small misgivings he’d later dismissed as his own feelings of inadequacy holding him back. He knew now that was probably the future disaster teasing his Force sense, but he also knew he would have gone with her anyway. She’d been his only way out.

He and Ben hadn’t seen each other for another seven years, when they had literally run into each other. Kenobi had been surprised that he’d gotten himself a master in the meanwhile, but seemed glad enough of it. And still he’d thought he hated Ben, thought so right up to the moment he came to sit with Bruck when his master had killed herself. Even then, he’d been in too much pain to admit it. If they hadn’t kissed, finally, almost a halfyear later . . .

Now he had another kind master, one he missed very much at this moment. He’d always thought Lannik were hard little nuts, like Councillor Piell with his missing eye and his warrior’s tail and humorless expression. There was some of that in his new master, Andreth Rallin, but he was also a friend of Qui-Gon’s, so Bruck should have known he’d have another side to him. After a few tenths he’d discovered his new master laughed frequently, and liked his beer, and had a taste for really atrocious puns.

They had only been a training pair for about a year, and so were still learning each other’s ways, but they clearly liked each other, for which Bruck was grateful. More importantly, Rallin seemed to respect him as well, not because he’d been perfect, but because he’d made mistakes and learned from them. He was also grateful his new master had had a padawan before and knew the ropes. Even though Bruck was bigger and taller than the little Lannik, there was no question who the master. He didn’t coddle Bruck as Leth had, or tip-toe around his feelings. His voice was a little gruff and he could be stern, but never cold. He was blunt in his appraisals, but fair. Very blunt. Bruck knew he wouldn’t think much of his student’s sulk at the moment.

But there was no one to go to to talk himself out of it. Leth was dead, his former friends deserting him when she killed herself, as though he were somehow tainted by her death; his new master was gone on a sensitive mission and wouldn’t be back for at least several more tenths; and none of his friends outside the Temple could even begin to understand what was going on here. He’d never meant to mention this lack of Temple friends to Ben at all. Most of the time, it didn’t bother him. He was either with Ben or with one or more of the friends he’d made outside the Temple in the halfyear he’d been without a master. Even his master had not really noticed Bruck’s lack of friends inside the Temple. He was usually on civil enough terms with his fellow padawans that it didn’t matter. But now it was likely to become an issue, and he’d be in the middle of it again. At least this time it was no fault of his own. Not really. Was it?

Somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Bruck felt as though he’d used up most of the tolerance and grace he might have started with as a child, and used it up very early on in his life. He’d been a stupid, bullying braggart for so much of his childhood and adolescence, too scared of failure to admit it even to himself, too jealous of Ben’s abilities to clearly see his own. Leth had at least given him some sense of his own worth, and just as badly shattered it with her death. Then Ben, of all people, had come along and loved him, giving it back to him again.

And as a reward, Bruck had strung him up in a practice room one day and brutalized him.

That it was sanctioned, that both the Council and Qui-Gon himself had known about it and even been observing, didn’t make it right anymore. He’d thought it would, but too much of his old self had come out in the scenario, whether anyone else recognized it or not. There had been too much hostility he hadn’t been able to curb, too much old frustration, too much misplaced and long-unvented rage—too much of his own insecurity turning to resentment. Afterwards, he’d felt as though he’d been some other person, wondered if he hadn’t somehow slipped into the Dark without realizing it, the way he nearly had with Xanatos.

Afterwards, at the club, he had tried to make up for it, but that was something else and no matter what he did, nothing would make him forget what he’d done to Ben—or that it had been so easy to do. It had been his trial in a small way too, and he had failed. That was what the other padawans knew, whether Ben recognized it or not.

That was really why he was sitting here now. He knew that now. It was not about the fact that he had no friends inside the Temple. In the years he had been with Leth he had learned how to be alone, to look inward for his own comfort, to sit inside the Force and just be with himself, and he was comfortable there now. He had blurted that secret out to Ben not looking for sympathy, but trying to push Kenobi away, to say _See? I’m not fit for anyone else’s company. Why would you really want me, especially after all the times I’ve hurt you?_ If anything, he was, perhaps, looking for absolution.

Not that he deserved it. Part of the conversation he’d had with Ben’s master came back to him then: _I’ve been a bastard before. It won’t be so hard to be one again,_ he’d told Master Jinn.

Even Jinn had misread him. It had been so easy to slip back into his old persona that he suspected that was who he truly was, and everything else a mask he had learned to wear. He scrubbed his hands over his face as though trying to peel it away. “Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hate; hate leads to suffering.” He murmured the litany almost automatically. It sounded almost like a prayer, even to his own ears.

But what was he afraid of? What had led to the anger he’d taken out on Ben in that practice room?

“Bruck?” he heard someone say, with some surprise in the voice, over the quiet roar of the waterfall.

Startled, he looked up from the blind study of his own hands and then started to scramble to his feet, finding himself confronted with almost two meters of uncloaked Qui-Gon Jinn. _Speak of the Sith,_ Bruck thought. The older man touched his shoulder, stilling Bruck’s movement before he was halfway off his knees.

“I’m sorry I didn’t hear you, Master Jinn,” he said, sinking back onto his heels uncomfortably. The last thing he wanted right now was a conversation of any sort with Ben’s master.

“I was just on my way back to our rooms, Bruck. You look as though you’ve been here some time,” Qui-Gon commented, sitting down next to the young man, not in a meditation posture, but casually crosslegged on the grass, very much at ease. “You’ve picked a good place to meditate. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

“No, Master Jinn. I wasn’t really meditating. Just thinking.”

“I think it’s past time you started to call me by my first name, Padawan,” Qui-Gon smiled. “Obi-Wan does most of the time now, and so do most of his friends. It seems a little odd to me that his other lover doesn’t. What were you contemplating? The competitions tomorrow?”

“What? Oh. No. I—I’ve decided to withdraw. I know Ben’s entered, isn’t he?”

“Yes, in the saber competitions. Why are you withdrawing? You’ve taken several prizes in the combat matches before.”

Bruck shrugged, wondering why Ben’s master seemed concerned with whether or not he competed. In truth he’d planned to because he enjoyed it, and hadn’t realized he’d changed his mind until Master Jinn—Qui-Gon—asked. He hadn’t actually withdrawn yet, but it would be the first thing he did when he returned to his quarters. “Time to let someone else win for a change. There are others as good as I am.”

“But you’ve fought them before and won.”

“I’ve won every unarmed combat competition in the senior division for the last three years,” Bruck affirmed. There should have been pleasure in the admission, if not the pride Jedi eschewed, but it was only a statement of fact, nothing more. “I’ve got enough awards.”

“Perhaps that would be true,” Qui-Gon agreed, “if that were really the object of the competitions. The awards you’ve won are acknowledgments of skills you’ve worked very hard to learn. As a senior padawan, you have a duty to teach those less skilled than yourself, as knights and masters have an obligation to pass on their knowledge and abilities, and to offer yourself as an opponent against which they can hone themselves. Every time someone spars with you, whether they win or lose, Bruck, that person learns something, just as you do when you fight a new opponent. Because so many of us are gone so often, the competitions may be the only opportunity some of your fellow padawans have to spar with you. If you don’t compete, you’re robbing others of the chance to learn from you, no matter which one of you wins.”

“I hadn’t really thought of it that way, Master Jinn,” Bruck replied with genuine surprise. “But I still think it’s better if I withdraw from this particular meet.” Truth was he didn’t think he could focus well enough now to get his boots on the right feet, let alone win a match—or even survive one without getting hurt—or worse yet, hurting someone else.

“Does this have something to do with what happened in the refectory this evening?” Ben’s master asked bluntly but not unkindly. It reminded him of his own master. “Obi-Wan told me he had to speak to Healer’s Apprentice Iolan.”

Bruck didn’t reply right away, and Qui-Gon sat patiently beside him, making a comfortable silence he need not fill. Not so long before, he’d wanted someone to talk to, but this wasn’t quite what he’d bargained for. Ben’s master intimidated him—not purposely, but just because of who he was: former padawan of the Order’s oldest and wisest master; a brilliant diplomat; a great swordsman with an acute and unusual connection to the Living Force; Ben’s very masculine and experienced lover . . .

. . . former master to a fallen apprentice who had turned to the Dark; a servant of the Order who had been censured more than once for his own conduct, a loner by nature, and something of a rogue, by some people’s standards. Bruck looked up into the deep-set blue eyes, seeing compassion, kinship, and a little sadness.

“I suppose it does. I expected Ben to hate me for what I did, but I knew he would never tell anyone else about it, and I didn’t expect Tianna to spread it around either.”

“No, she should not have spoken as she did, even to only imply your role,” Qui-Gon agreed. “In some ways that’s far worse; it leaves so much to the imagination.”

“Yes,” Bruck nodded, and fell silent again. After another short pause he added, “I can stand being ignored, people just being civil and nothing else. I’ve gotten used to it and it doesn’t really bother me anymore. It’s the, it’s—” he heard himself choking up and stopped, just waving a hand in frustration.

“Being actively ostracized by people who should be your family,” Qui-Gon finished for him. Bruck didn’t trust himself to do anything but nod and had to look away when Ben’s master put a large hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “You’ve walked a rocky road since coming to the Temple, haven’t you?”

Bruck shrugged. “My own fault, if I have. Most days I feel pretty lucky to still be here.” He looked up again, swallowing heavily. “May I ask you something, Ma—Qui-Gon?”

“Of course, Bruck.”

“Why did Knight Tahl speak up for me after what I did?”

“Did you ever ask her?”

“No. I was too ashamed even to thank her properly. Now it’s too late.”

Qui-Gon rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a long breath. “I suspect she spoke up for you for the same reasons the Council only put Obi-Wan on probation when we parted ways on Melida/Daan: you were young, inexperienced, desperate, and you made a mistake that anyone might have made with Xanatos—you thought he had your best interests at heart. I also suspect Tahl thought it was because you were ill-guided. Xan was always good at exploiting other’s fears and someone should have seen those fears in you long before and countered them. This is only my interpretation, you understand. I can’t speak for Tahl, but we were friends for many years and I think I knew her well enough to guess what she was thinking then. Whatever her reasons, she was right about you. You’re going to be a fine knight.”

“If I am, it’ll be none of my own doing,” he said sourly.

“Is that really how you feel, Bruck?” Qui-Gon asked him gently. “You shouldn’t. No amount of guidance or help or training or interest by or from anyone else can make you something you’re not—any more than I could make Xan into someone who wished to serve the light. Tahl would not have spoken for you if she had not seen someone worth speaking for.”

 “I wonder—”

“What she saw in you?” Qui-Gon finished for him. “After all these years as an apprentice, you still don’t know?”

“No.”

“What do you think I see in you? What does Obi-Wan, or Andreth? What did Leth see in you? Or the Council, for that matter. They’re not easily persuaded.”

“I don’t know!” he cried. “Someone to be pitied, at best,” he said more quietly, ashamed of his outburst.

“Don’t be a fool, Padawan!” Ben’s master snapped. “You’ve more brains than that. No one would make you an apprentice simply because they pitied you.”

“No, I do know that,” he agreed. “But it’s all I do know. You and Obi-Wan and Andreth see one thing in me, Leth saw another, and the rest see something else. The Council—who knows what they see? Who’s right?”

“What do you see?”

“I—I don’t think I can trust my own perceptions.”

“Why not?”

He went silent then, finding it almost impossible to speak what came to mind first: that he didn’t know which person he truly was: the one Xanatos had found so useful in his eagerness to belong _somewhere_ or the one Ben loved and believed in.

“What does your heart tell you?” Qui-Gon prompted gently. “Trust your feelings, as Tahl trusted hers when she spoke to the Council in defense of a young boy who had always received too little praise and valued himself so little that he would follow anyone who gave him some sense of worth.”

“How did she know?” Bruck said, feeling his chest and throat tighten. “How could she? She’d never met me before, didn’t know me from the hundreds of other initiates. Why did she trust me when no one else did?”

Qui-Gon let out a heavy breath and paused before he replied. Bruck remembered suddenly that Obi-Wan had once told him Qui-Gon had been in love with Tahl, that they had pledged themselves to each other when Obi-Wan was first an apprentice. The older man had been devasted when she died. It must still be hard for him to talk about her. Bruck was about to say something to give him a graceful way out of doing so when he went on.

“Tahl was very good at seeing into the hearts of others, even before she lost her sight,” Qui-Gon said, leaning back on his hands and smiling. “Afterwards—well, you must know that when someone loses one sense, the others become sharper to compensate. This is as true of Jedi as it is of anyone else, but we have an extra sense to give us input; we have our Force-sensitivity, and all it tells us. She told me once that what she saw of others afterwards was not their physical shape, but the light or darkness inside them. What I suspect she saw of you then was a layer of dark fear and anger smothering a bright core. What I see now is doubt trying to do the same. Obi-Wan is a good judge of character. Trust his judgement. If he finds you worthy of love, I suspect he is right. Is there anyone who knows you better?”

“No. Not now. Not here.”

“Then perhaps it is time you learned to believe in yourself as he believes in you. You’ve learned to take responsibility for your mistakes and your actions, Bruck. Take credit for your successes as well: another reason you should compete tomorrow. ”

Somehow, he managed a rather lame smile. “I’ll think about what you’ve said, Qui-Gon. Thanks for the advice.”

Though Jinn’s expression remained neutral, Bruck could tell Ben’s master didn’t care for the ambivalent reply. “You must do what you feel is best, of course, but I think your master would urge you to compete tomorrow. Consider what you might learn, not just what you might teach someone else.” Jinn got to his feet. “I’ll tell Obi-Wan we ran into each other. Good evening, Bruck. Sleep well.”

“Good evening M—Qui-Gon.” _Shit_ , Bruck thought, watching him go, everything clear as crystal suddenly.

He was jealous.

The only reason he hadn’t seen it before was . . . well, because he hadn’t wanted to. What terrified him was losing Ben, knowing that he was only Ben’s lover by the grace of Ben’s master, that, if forced to chose between them, Ben would chose Qui-Gon.

Bruck found himself laughing suddenly, though it was more bitter than amused. Little gods, people were perverse. He’d hurt Ben to push him away because he was afraid of being abandoned. Better to say _I left him_ than _he left me._ As if, in a few years, it would matter at all. In a few years, Ben would be knighted, he would be knighted, and neither of them would be at Temple for more than a handful of days each year, possibly not crossing paths more than once or twice. Coming and going, as it were. He smiled sourly. Already he and Ben hardly saw one another. After knighting, all three of them would be alone, as most Jedi were until they took padawans, or retired—if they lived to. No wonder the outside world so often viewed them as an order of celibates.

But Ben had never done anything to make him jealous. Neither Ben nor Qui-Gon flaunted their relationship in public. Very little of their behavior had changed even at Temple since they’d become lovers. The two padawans were much more demonstrative with each other. They often walked through the halls together with their arms around each other, kissed unselfconsciously wherever the urge took them, occasionally not-so-discreetly felt each other up. With Qui-Gon it was confined to a look or a brief touch of hands, a caress of Ben’s braid, at most a quick hug or a kiss on the cheek or forehead, all very chaste. And never intentionally in front of him. When he and Ben were together it was almost as though Qui-Gon did not exist as anything but Ben’s master. Even Qui-Gon did not allude to his relationship with Ben, though he freely acknowledged Bruck’s. _Stupid, selfish, insecure little prick,_ he berated himself.

So. Bruck sighed. So. He had some work to do.

“Might as well start now,” he muttered, settling himself in for some deep meditation as the twilight settled into darkness around him.

 

* * *

 

Morning—and Kenobi—found him in the exhibition hall, warming up for the coming competitions, much to his own surprise.

“Where did you disappear to last night? Didn’t you get my message?” Ben demanded, practically snorting steam in irritation. “Qui said you were at the falls in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. I was worried about you. Especially when I couldn’t find you there.”

“I was meditating,” Bruck replied calmly, “in another part of the gardens.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Kenobi said sheepishly. “I thought you might be sulking, and need a kick in the arse. Or a kiss.”

Bruck grinned. “I could always use one of those,” he agreed, stealing one. “Both, actually. I was sulking, for a while. Then I got a kick in the arse from Qui-Gon.”

Ben grinned. “He’s good at that. Listen, I talked to Ti last night, right after you left the refectory. She—”

“Let’s just forget it, okay? At least for right now. I need to focus if I’m not going to get my ass kicked here. Warm up with me?”

Kenobi let a sly grin cross his features and bumped his hip gently against Bruck’s, eliciting a similar grin. “Whenever and wherever.”

“You’re so easy,” Bruck responded fondly, stealing another kiss as he leaned into a stretch, grateful he’d managed to distract Ben. He really did need to focus if he wanted to win today.

And he’d already spent most of last night thinking, looking inside himself for the bright core Tahl must have seen, and finding it for the first time. A bit at a time, afraid he might accidentally snuff it out somehow, he examined it, let himself believe in it, though it felt strange to see himself in that light, and to see that light in himself. For the first time, he laid out all his accomplishments and strengths and weighed them against his failings and weaknesses: his academic honors in history and archaeology against his desultory efforts in other subjects and real difficulties with languages; his skills in close combat against his mediocre performance in gymnastics; his accomplishments in swimming and running against his failures in team sports; his ability to take on convincing disguises against his lack of diplomatic and negotiating skills; his talent for drawing against his off-key voice—and realized with a shock that he was still measuring himself against Ben. Still, after all this time, though neither their abilities nor their mistakes were the same. Ben had left the order for a worthy cause he believed in, Bruck had betrayed it in the desperate need to belong, to be useful, to serve.

And that was one of his own strengths, that he wanted to serve, wanted that so much that he would do anything, give anything, to be useful to the Order, having been given this second chance. Looking inside, he found a now-unshakeable loyalty to the Jedi, found that he wanted more than anything to complete his training and take his place at the side of people like Ben and Qui-Gon and his own master. Surely that made him valuable.

He put the comparisons aside then and simply examined the things he knew he was good at. They made him a different kind of Jedi than either Ben or his master, but no less utilitarian, he realized. There was certainly room for who he was in the Order. And realizing that, his jealousy of Qui-Gon faded. He was not the man who was Ben’s master, and he never would be, but Ben loved both of them anyway. That was enough.

He went off to the exhibition hall with a lighter heart than he’d had in some time.

 

Now, hours later, he faced his last opponent in the final rounds. It had been a grueling day gone into without sleep, but he had managed to do well, nonetheless. None of his matches had been easily won but, as Qui-Gon had said, all of them were instructive.

He stepped onto the mat as another, younger padawan left it, having won her own match. Bruck recognized her as one of Qui-Gon’s second-gen padawans, Isa Kassir. Briefly, he wondered when she’d grown up so much. In passing, she held up her hand for the traditional slap, surprising him. Aside from Ben, no one else had offered. He returned the gesture, their palms meeting smartly, and the younger Padawan grinned at him, her short red hair in dark, sweaty tufts of curl. “Force be with you, Chun. I hope you take Muln down quick. He needs a lesson today.”

_Muln._ Heart skipping a beat, Bruck looked to the opposite side of the mat. Sure enough. His last opponent for the day was Ben’s best friend—his worst enemy. For years, Garen and Ben had been about the same size, both of them coming into an early growth and leaving Bruck behind, feeling like a runt. Bruck had caught up eventually, and even shot past Ben, as Garen had, then somewhere in the last couple of years, Garen had bulked out until he was broader than Ben and Bruck put together, as powerfully built as a Gamorrean boar if a great deal taller. His size made him look taller than Bruck but they were really about the same height, though the other young man outweighed Bruck by a good 20 kilos, spread across pecs and biceps and quads that were like steel. He’d beaten Muln before, but it took strategy and finesse, not the raw strength he could often use in place of technique with smaller or less-skilled opponents. Bruck thought it was probably touch and go today. He’d been in less than his best form from lack of sleep, but had managed to make it to the final rounds on points if not clear victories.

As they bowed to one another in the center of the mats, Muln whispered, “Offal,” grinning darkly.

“Knuckledragger,” Bruck responded, cracking his loudly, his own grin gone feral. If he wasn’t careful, he might enjoy this.

The Temple’s Devish Combat Master, refereeing, dropped the arm separating them and stepped back.

Muln was on him almost before he knew it. Kicking up and using the Force to propel himself, he just managed to get his legs scissored around the other young man’s neck as he was taken down and landed on so hard that it knocked the breath from him. He saw stars for a moment, lost his grip on the Force, felt Muln pinning his shoulders and twisted desperately, groping for control and using the Force like a surface to push against. Muln had no choice but to follow him or have his neck broken. It was a hold Ben could have slithered out of with little difficulty, but Garen lacked Kenobi’s lithe flexibility and had to tap out.

A sharp whistle sounded. “Break,” the referee instructed. “Point to Chun.”

Bruck let his opponent up and Muln got to his feet working one shoulder and rubbing his neck, scowling. _Good. Get pissed,_ Bruck thought, reaching for his own calm center as he rose.

“Lucky,” Muln growled.

“Competent,” Bruck corrected coolly.

“Take him down, Garen!” someone shouted from the sidelines, raising a swell of echoing support. He listened for Ben’s voice, but heard nothing. There was no outright derision, but he heard no one call his name with any intent but to encourage Muln to make him the object of defeat. It had been like that all day, was like that at every match. He shut it out, went inside and wrapped the knowledge of Ben’s love around him. Bruck knew Kenobi was watching, as he had watched Ben’s saber bouts that morning, when they didn’t conflict with his own, but he would not be shouting encouragement and support now as he had earlier when Bruck faced opponents who were not also Kenobi’s friends. During this match, Ben would remain carefully silent, all his diplomat’s training keeping whatever emotions he was feeling from his face. It stung a little, but he knew as well as Ben that it was the right thing to do, and he would accept it without resentment.

He and Muln faced each other again, crouched until the Combat Master dropped his hand and stepped back. His opponent wasn’t so quick to lunge in this time and they circled for a moment before Bruck thought he saw an opening and went for it, trying to sweep Muln’s legs out from under him. Garen stumbled then danced back a step and took a swipe at Bruck’s head with an enormous paw, trying for a headlock. Lightning quick, Bruck grabbed Muln’s wrist and hand, twisted, bent, levered, felt the floor shake as his opponent went down, stepped over, up and pulled on the arm he held by wrist and elbow. Muln grunted and tried to twist away. Bruck pulled harder and got a gasp. “Tap out, stupid,” Bruck hissed, “or I’ll break it.” He pulled a little harder on the twisted limb and Muln’s other palm slapped the mat almost out of reflex.

“Break,” the Devish master, called. “Point to Chun.”

Bruck stepped back and Muln got to his feet again, eyes watering, face tight. _This is too easy,_ Bruck thought warily, watching the other young man. _He’s giving it away, trying to lull me._ Keeping his features carefully neutral, Bruck moved back into the center of the mat, facing Muln again, blocking out more cheering for his opponent from the sidelines. It was a risky strategy and it showed Muln’s contempt, that he would give points away on the assumption he would later pull off a clear win. Just how little he thought of Bruck would be revealed by how many more points he gave away.

The referee’s arm fell, opening the space between them once more.

This time they grappled right away, Muln getting his thickly muscled arms around Bruck’s waist and bowling him backwards. As he was going over, Bruck brought up both knees, sank them into Muln’s rock-hard stomach and hoisted his opponent over his head with his own momentum, then twisted and got his forearm across Muln’s throat, pressing hard. Muln’s eyes bulged, then one of those thick arms locked around his own neck as Muln was rolling up on his shoulders, leg flashing up to lock behind Bruck’s knee. He let himself go with the throw and used the momentum to roll out of reach, scrambling to his feet as Muln leaped up as well, deceptively quick for his bulk.

So. He’d stopped giving points away. That made Bruck feel better, that Muln was being more cautious now, trying harder. Muln’s foot struck out like a lash; Bruck blocked with an arm, feeling the strength of the blow as expanding pressure as his opponent’s heel made contact with a badly placed elbow. Bruck’s arm went numb and then exploded into pain, making him gasp and flinch. Much as it hurt, he didn’t let it paralyze him. Instead, he channeled it and used that impetus to buy himself time. He turned the flinch into space in which to draw back for a blow, came up with the heel of his other hand and hit Muln’s nose, making him take a step back and shake his head, blinded with tears. Then it was Bruck’s turn to kick out, catching Muln in the solar plexus, hearing breath whoosh out of him as he slid to his knees, gasping, clutching his midsection.

Bruck barely heard the referee’s whistle over the roaring in his ears. Pain radiated up his arm, arcing directly into his head and stomach. _No puking,_ he told himself sternly and bent over, breathing deeply and calling the Force to concentrate in his roiling stomach and throbbing elbow. Then Qui-Gon came out on the mat with a water bottle and ice pack while Garen’s master appeared with the same.

“You’re doing very well,” Qui-Gon told him, holding the ice pack to his elbow and rubbing his back as he drank. “I think perhaps Padawan Muln has underestimated you.”

Bruck shook his head. “No. We’ve fought before. He’s just trying to fake me out. Rattle me by giving points away, make me think he doesn’t think much of my abilities.”

“You know your opponent then, Bruck. Trust your instincts. Obi-Wan says he expects to see you win in five.” And Qui-Gon was gone with a wink, leaving him on the mats with Muln, whose eyes were already turning black.

“Point to Chun,” the referee repeated. “Two to win.”

“C’mon Chun! Take him down!” he heard someone yell as the referee’s hand rose. He couldn’t supress a smile and Muln took it as a challenge.

Garen came at him like fury this time, all quick strikes with hands and feet that put Bruck on the defensive and backed him over the mat to the edge. Stepping off it would be a clear win for Muln. Time for something unexpected. He’d been working on this with Ben and looking for a chance to use it. As he’d been taught, he used the Force like a springboard and launched himself over Muln’s head, tucking and rolling, but coming down a little off-balance and stumbling instead of whirling into the smooth kick-turn he’d planned to take Garen off guard with. Instead, it was Muln who caught him with a reverse kick to his chest and followed with a roundhouse in the other direction to his head. Dimly, he heard bone crack somewhere as darkness swallowed him.

 

* * *

 

The rocks were slippery under his feet and his saber was gone, shorted out in the water. He needed a weapon, reached down into the river, tugged at one of the slimy stones, lost his footing, teetered precariously, not sure where his center of gravity was, then felt himself falling, wind in his face. There was only air beneath him now, the water and wind roaring all around. He hit something, a stone, felt as though his chest had collapsed with the impact, bounced, hit another rock with his head, flinging it back, vertebrae snapping—

“Shhhhh.” The wind seemed to have a voice. It sounded like Ben. “Hush. It’s all right. You’re all right.” Disembodied hands and fingers touched his cheek, wrapped around his hand, held him still.

He woke shivering, opened his eyes, saw nothing but blurry colors whirling in a nauseating pattern, closed his eyes tightly again and felt the ground shift beneath him, tilting. Fingers stroked behind his ear, where his braid started, lips pressed against his hair, grounding him. The whirling sensation slowed, stopped, and the nausea settled, finally as the floor leveled out. He tried it again, one eye at a time, blinked, blinked again, and saw Ben’s face above him, brows arched in a savage scowl. Comical, really; he could bore a hole with that look, Bruck thought, laughing, or starting to. A sheet of pain roared through his chest with the suddenness and speed of a rogue wave and brought tears to his eyes, making him breathe in shallow, panting gasps. He shivered again, head pounding, sick to his stomach, chest on fire.

Someone put a blanket over him and he realized he was still lying on the mats in the exhibition hall, Ben kneeling beside him on one side, holding his hand, Qui-Gon on the other, tucking the blanket around him. Someone else held his head still. Jinn’s large hand spread lightly across his chest, suffusing him with warmth. He stopped shivering, squeezed Ben’s hand. “Tell Muln—good match,” he gasped, wondering how just talking could hurt so much.

“Got what you deserved,” he heard a sullen voice growl.

“Shut up, both of you!” Ben snarled.

“Padawans,” Jinn said with quiet reproof.

A Rodian healer and her young human apprentice appeared then, the boy clearly still in his teens, but exuding a calm and pleasant warmth that Bruck let drop around him like a curtain, shutting out Ben’s fraughtness and Muln’s hostility. He drifted into sleep. . . .

. . . Woke some time later, feeling stiff, head aching mildly. He recognized the Healers Halls almost immediately from the faint antiseptic smell and the sunny colors. Warm, drowsy, criminally comfortable, he considered going back to sleep, then wondered where Ben was. Experimentally, he turned his head, expecting pain and nausea, felt only a little dizziness, and saw Ben sitting in a chair beside him, still scowling, this time over his datapad.

“Hey,” he said hoarsely.

Ben looked up, the scowl breaking into a radiant smile that sent tingles through him. “—Is for banthas. How do you feel?”

“Okay, I guess. How bad was it?”

“Slight concussion, fractured sternum, three separated ribs, bad bone bruise on your elbow,” Ben told him, frowning again.

“Huh. Had worse. Guess Muln won.”

Yes, technically. Master Muk’s not too happy with him though. ‘Pathetic, Padawan Muln, to injure an opponent so badly in a match. Shows a sloppy carelessness in your technique.’” Ben quoted in an uncanny imitation of the Devish’s mournful baritone, complete with dolorous expression.

Bruck grinned. “Looks like Muln’s going to be doing some control exercises for a while.”

“And you’re going to work on that overhead flip. Your landing stank,” Ben told him bluntly.

“Thank you.”

“It did.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have used it yet. It just looks so good when you do it. And I knew Garen wouldn’t be expecting it.”

“You looked good out there without it. You were doing fine without it. You could have gotten out of that corner any number of other ways—”

“All right, all right. Point taken. Don’t harangue me. You’re making my head hurt.”

Kenobi looked a little sheepish, then leaned over and kissed him gently, nuzzling his cheek. “Sorry. You frightened me.”

“‘Fear leads to anger—’”

“Yes, yes, Master Chun,” Ben sighed. “Anger leads to me wanting to kick Garen’s ass. I hope Ti’s happy with the results of what she started.”

“You can’t blame her for everything, Ben. Garen’s never liked me. He made his own choices. Or not. It could just be I wasn’t up to my usual standards. I didn’t sleep last night.”

“Two nights ago now,” Kenobi informed him.

“Oh. Well, the night before the meet then. And he’s good. We’ve had some close matches before.”

“You’re much more forgiving than I am.”

“I have to be. I can’t afford to come between you and your friends, Ben,” Bruck reminded him. “I won’t.”

“It wouldn’t come to that.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve told you before—”

“That’s not the point. The point is, I don’t want you to have to choose. I don’t want to give your friends any grounds for forcing it on you.”

Ben sighed. “He hurt you intentionally.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“I tried to. He just keeps saying, ‘Why are you defending him?’ which really means, ‘Why are you fucking him?’ in Muln-speak, though Garen doesn’t have balls enough to ask me that,” Kenobi replied sourly.

“You can always tell him I’m one of Qui-Gon’s lessons in being kind to pathetic life forms,” he grinned, trying for self-deprecation and just skirting self-pity instead, much to his own chagrin. Ben smiled a little at him, knowing very well what he was doing. He looked away, feeling his cheeks flush. “He’s not going to get it until after his own pain trials, Ben, if then. Let it go. I’m not expecting a public apology or anything.”

“Well, you’re going to get one from Tianna,” Kenobi said grimly. “We had a very long talk after you left the refectory.”

Bruck felt a little panic at that idea. It would just make him the focus of attention again, and that was the last thing he wanted. But he couldn’t deny Tianna the right to make her apology, either. Maybe he could talk her into a private one instead. “You explained about the pain trials?”

“I explained everything.”

“Everything?” Bruck heard himself squeak. His voice had changed years ago, but you’d never know it, hearing that one word. Those few syllables Ben spoke had set his heart thumping even harder.

“Everything,” Kenobi confirmed, blushing a little himself.

“Ben, was that really necessary? I mean—”

“Apparently it was, for me. I didn’t give her any details, just . . . just the frame. That it was something I needed to learn, something Qui couldn’t teach me and you could. Once I explained that, she backed off right away. That was why I was trying to find you the night before last. Ti wanted to apologize. Before the meet. Maybe Garen wouldn’t have—”

“Ben, he’d have kicked my ass regardless,” Bruck interrupted, yawning. “He was doing what he was supposed to. I got sloppy and lost the match. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

“If that’s what you’d prefer,” Ben agreed reluctantly.

“I would. Now kiss me so I can go back to sleep.”

Kenobi complied with this request with much less hesitation. Bruck drifted off again with Ben’s thumb stroking one eyebrow.

 

* * *

 

Tianna’s apology produced exactly the result he’d hoped to avoid. Though he had left her several messages and tried to see her while he was still in the Healers Halls, they had not had a chance to speak before he saw her in the refectory several days later. He had finished eating and rid himself of his tray, intending to go home and study, when she stepped out from a table full of her friends that included both Bant and Garen, and touched his sleeve. Before he could stop her, she went to her knees in front of him in the middle of the meal, in the middle of the aisle between the padawans’ and knights’ tables, in the middle of everything and everyone, and touched her forehead to the floor for what felt like an eternity to Bruck. A respectful silence fell in slow ripples around them. Even so, when she came up again he could not hear her for the roaring in his own ears. When she was through, looking up expectantly, he had just enough sense to say, “I thank you, Apprentice Iolan. The incident is forgotten,” and raise her to her feet. Somehow, he extricated himself from her company without offending either her or anyone else at the table, and left the room with what he hoped were some shreds of dignity.

And found a summons to the Council for the following morning waiting on his commpad.

Studying was now out of the question and sleep unlikely. Somewhere near eleventh hour, Ben pinged him and left a message when he didn’t answer, but he didn’t play it either. He didn’t want to embroil Kenobi in this and couldn’t stand explaining anything just yet. Better to lie low and try to meditate and keep his wits about him—and try to purge himself of the anger he felt at Tianna for starting all this. He knew that wasn’t entirely rational. The ultimate cause was his own behavior, not just with Ben, but beginning long ago, the pattern of it since he’d been a boy. Over the years, he had learned to accept that, but there were still times when it seemed unfair that he was never allowed to forget it.

When the doorkeeper summoned him into the Council’s chambers the next morning, he went in with his head bowed and eyes fixed on the floor, as he had walked through the halls that morning with his face concealed in his cowl. Once in the center, he dropped to his knees and bowed as Tianna had the day before, forehead to the floor, hands pressed to cold stone on either side of his head. Nausea gnawed at him as he remembered sitting this way years before, waiting to be told he was a disgrace to the order and summarily dismissed from it. What had happened instead was almost worse, though it had taken him some years to figure that out.

He’d been asked, then, to kneel in front of Saesee Tiin, who had placed his delicate and powerful hands on Bruck’s head and . . . split open his mind.

Even now he didn’t remember all of what they’d done, rooting around in there, only those two moments they’d brought to light: the moment when he’d changed, and the moment he had decided to do Xanatos’ bidding. He remembered coming to in Knight Tahl’s arms with a blinding headache, sick and weak, waking again a long time later in his room with Master Koth sitting beside him, offering him an apology for making him ill—and the conditions of his continued association with the Jedi. He’d been too sick to fully realize the consequences—not that it would have changed anything if he had, then. A few days later, Leth had come to him.

Master Windu broke the silence this time.

“Are you recovered, Padawan?” he asked in a kindly tone Bruck hadn’t been prepared for. He sat up, confused, but kept his gaze fixed on the floor.

“Yes, My Master. Thank you, My Master.”

“You fought well. I was sorry to see you lose.”

“Thank you, My Master.” _What in all the Sith hells did Windu and the Council want, and why was he being so friendly?_

“Perhaps you could tell us why Apprentice Iolan made a public apology to you last night in the middle of nightmeal?” Ki-Adi-Mundi asked him with an apparently innocent curiosity that didn’t fool Bruck.

“Please, My Masters, for starting a rumor that I’d—” He choked suddenly and couldn’t say it. The phrase ran through his head like a glitch in a holo but he couldn’t make himself form the words. Not the ones he really meant. Finally, he managed: “—that I’d intentionally injured Padawan Kenobi.”

“During his pain trials, you mean?” the Cerean went on.

“Yes, My Master.” Bruck tried not to mumble like a guilty initiate.

“It wasn’t precisely a rumor, was it?” Councillor Billaba said dryly. Mace’s former padawan hadn’t been on the Council when he’d first appeared before them as an initiate, but no doubt she knew his records as well as the rest.

“No, My Master. I did hurt him.” _But Qui-Gon knew all about it—you all knew. We discussed it in detail,_ he wanted to say, hoped he wasn’t broadcasting it.

“Why did you volunteer to complete the trial for Padawan Kenobi?” Even Piell asked him, suspicion clear in his voice. Hard to believe Piell and his own master were both Lanniks, they were so different, Piell sharp and incisive as a piece of shrapnel, Master Andreth getting under his skin and into his head much more painlessly—like sunlight spreading into a dark place.

“Because B—Padawan Kenobi—is such a private person, My Master. I thought it would save him some embarrassment later if I were the only one of his agemates who knew how it had really gone. I thought it would be easier for him in the long run, My Master.” In retrospect, it seemed a pretty weak explanation, even to himself. But why had they let him do it, then?

“And for you?” Saesee Tiin said softly. “Easier to control what happened to him? So that what happened to Initiate Grifalis did not repeat itself?”

Bruck shivered hard, as though he’d been stripped naked and made to stand in a cold wind. Councillor Tiin’s voice always did that to him. And the memory he’d called up made him just as cold all over.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, My Master,” he managed finally, sounding stunned even to himself.

“I’m sure some part of you did, Padawan, whether you are aware of it or not. The scenario was nearly the same, after all.”

Bruck made some small noise of horror, squeezing his eyes shut, as he realized it was true. And it hadn’t occurred to him. Not until it was pointed out to him seconds ago. Gods, how could he be so blind? He wasn’t sure which fact unnerved him more.

“Is that so, Padawan?” Windu asked him gently. “Did you not realize you were recreating what you witnessed with Initiate Crellin and Initiate Grifalis?”

“I, I haven’t thought about it in years, not really. It was so long ago! I, it didn’t, I wasn’t trying to—” he stammered.

“No one’s accusing you of anything, Bruck,” Eeth Koth reassured him, or tried to, though he felt quite beyond the reach of any kind of reassurance. He felt more than stripped bare now. With a few words, Councillor Tiin had turned him inside out again. “We’re simply asking you to think about your own motives and actions.”

“And your emotions,” Windu added. “Master Jinn indicated that you were quite distressed yourself afterwards. How did you feel, Padawan?”

“Please, My Master, if you’re asking me if I enjoyed it, the answer is no.” It was suddenly very important to Bruck that everyone in this room understand that.

“I’m asking you what emotions you experienced, Padawan,” Windu said a little more sharply.

Oh gods oh gods, they’d drag this out forever if he didn’t just spit it out. This is what they were really after. Ti’s apology was just an excuse to haul his sorry ass in here an grill him again like they had when Ben had broken his collarbone. Better to have it over with than screwed out of him millimeter by millimeter.

He looked up then, meeting Windu’s gaze almost defiantly. “I hated it,” he snarled. “And I hated who I had to become to finish it. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to, and that would have been worse. I was afraid of hurting him too much, of having to hurt him at all. I was afraid I couldn’t do it. And I was disgusted that I could.” He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, felt like he was sobbing for air.

“Not afraid for yourself, hmmm, Padawan?”

Bruck had wondered when Master Yoda would chime in, in his sly, insinuating voice. And he was silent then, for a time, remembering, breath slowing. “No, My Master,” he said finally, almost in control again. “Not for myself. Only for Ben.”

“Not even of losing him? Lovers, you are, yes?” the little green master prodded.

Bruck smiled then, feeling much calmer suddenly. He was on much more certain ground here. “Yes, My Master. We are. But I wasn’t afraid of losing him. I was sure I would when I volunteered. I was wrong.”

Yoda stamped his stick against the polished floor. “Sure you should be that become your destiny your own prophecies do not, Padawan. Guide you in all things should the Force.”

“Yes, My Master,” Bruck murmured, lightheaded now with relief, recognizing the meeting was at its end. And they did let him go then, with only a cursory reminder that his actions were both closely observed and carefully scrutinized by the Council. He wondered later if he had actually staggered out of the Council’s chambers, or if it had only felt that way.

He was halfway to the lifts before he realized he didn’t know where he was going and was overcome by a wave of exhaustion that decided his destination, classes or no classes. He headed back to his own quarters, staggered inside, and was asleep on the couch within moments of taking his boots off.

Bruck knew he should have been back in the initiates hall already, and in fact had less than six minutes to be in his room before curfew, but he had to find his comm unit and he was certain it had fallen out of his belt pouch as he was coming out of the practice room on his way to latemeal. He never broke curfew but this was the third comm unit he’d misplaced and there would be “consequences,” in Creche Master Angadi’s words, if he lost this one too, so it seemed worth the risk to recover it. Besides, there was a long stretch of nearly deserted hallway between the practice rooms and the creche he could Force-run through if he had to—

The sound stopped him dead, impending curfew and lost comm unit forgotten. A high, keening sob of pain seeped like some poisonous gas from behind the closed door he was passing, something cloying and thick and dark with it, an almost-visible shadow. Bruck froze, listening, hackles raised and quivering, hearing nothing now but a low murmur from behind the same door. Had he imagined—no, there were words now, in that same voice, awful words: “Don’t” and “Please” and “Hurts” and “Stop—”

He pressed his ear to the wall beside the door where the air pocket of the door track acted as something of an amplifier, heard another voice, a little shrill, a little cruel, one he knew very well: Pesh Crellin’s voice, four years older and scourge of the initiates, taunting.

“Stop it!” again through the wall, all of a sudden, muffled a little but clearly Col’s voice—Pesh’s favorite victim: big, gentle, slow Col Grifalis, with his goofy sweetness and shy smile, and Pesh half his size with all the meanness Col had never had.

Bruck stood paralyzed outside, limbs frozen in fear in the act of reaching for the door’s override as another terrible wordless scream leaked through the door, followed by a truly ominous silence and the smell of scorched flesh. Then the door opened so fast it seemed to disappear. Pesh stared at him for a frenzied moment, grey eyes wide and wild with terror, then shoved him out of the way and ran past him. Bruck got up and hurled himself through the door to help Col—

He was retching when he woke up, and someone was holding his head over the side of the couch, hushing him. For a moment Bruck didn’t know where he was or how old he was. For a moment he was eight years old again, throwing up in the door of the practice room with the stink and cold and terror of the Dark Side around him. Then he was 22, in his own quarters, and it was Ben wiping his mouth, rubbing his back, getting him a glass of water to wash away the taste of bile, telling him to breathe slow and deep.

“All right?” Ben said when he’d emptied the glass.

Bruck nodded and scrubbed at his face with his palms. Force visions and memories didn’t come to him often, unlike Ben, and after this one, the less he saw of them, the better, he thought.

“What was it?” Ben asked gently, warm hand resting in the middle of his back.

“How did you get in here?” Bruck evaded.

“Very easily. You put my palm print on the door, remember?” Kenobi replied with just a touch of irony. “What’s wrong, love? You look as though you’ve seen hell.”

“Just its council,” Bruck muttered.

“Is that where you were this morning?”

“This morning? What time is it?”

“After secondmeal. You’ve been asleep for quite a while, it seems. What did they want?”

“Gods you’re a nosey bastard!” he snapped. “Lay off, will you? You’re making my head hurt.”

“Well, it’s going to hurt for a while then,” Ben insisted. “Because I’m not going to lay off until you answer me. You’ve become very secretive all of a sudden and I don’t like it. You don’t want me to talk to Garen about going after you. You don’t even want an apology from Ti, and when she does apologize, you rocket off like she’s offered you a thermal detonator you have to dispose of instead, and then disappear afterwards. You don’t answer my calls and don’t return my messages. This morning you’re not in class and not in the salles and no one knows why. What’s going on? Are you in trouble, love?”

“No more than usual,” he muttered. “Let’s just say I’m not the Council’s favorite padawan and leave it at that, okay?”

Kenobi got up and stood in front of him, crossing his arms. “No. We won’t leave it at that. If you hide things from me, how am I supposed to trust you? What’s going on? You can start with what you were doing with the Council this morning, all alone.”

Really, Ben was being very patient with him, and it wasn’t as though he were a total stranger. “I don’t suppose I could just whammy you to forget all about this, could I?” he said wearily, waving his hand.

“No.”

“Well don’t loom over me like that, then. It makes me feel like I’m back in that chamber on my knees again.” Kenobi sat beside him once more, a little more stiffly and a little farther away this time, and that hurt. Bruck slumped in his seat and shoved his hands into his sleeves. “The Council just wanted to remind me that I’m not a knight yet and I need to keep my nose clean.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They wanted to know what Ti’s apology was all about—”

“Ti’s apology? Why? That’s not the kind of thing the Council usually concerns itself with. That’s nothing. That’s just—” Ben waved his hand. “It happens. People disagree, have an argument, say the wrong thing and apologize. End of story.”

“Except that things involving me have a tendency to get out of hand sometimes, or haven’t you noticed? Didn’t take that rumor long to get around, did it? Look, Ben, I know you find this hard to understand, but you’re about the only person in the Temple who really—who doesn’t think I’m—who— Shit!” he muttered and started again. “You’re the only person who really does trust me. And sometimes I don’t understand why you do. To everyone else here I’m the kid who betrayed the Temple into Xanatos’s hands and almost killed Bant. I’m a thief and a liar and a traitor and a bully, and about one step away from the Dark. I’m a throwaway, an experiment in mercy, and if I don’t work out, well, no one would be real surprised, and it wouldn’t be any big loss. I’m here on sufferance and the Council likes to remind me of that every now and then.

“When you broke my collarbone, one of the reasons I was so pissed at you was that I was terrified I was going to be thrown out on my ass, finally, after seven years of really trying to do the right thing. You got a year’s probation out of it, but I’ve been on probation since before I was taken as a padawan. Those demerits could have ruined me—could still ruin me, even if I pass my trials.” Ben started to speak and Bruck stopped him. “I’m not blaming you for them. I got what I deserved for goading you. In the end, I guess it wasn’t so bad. I mean, look what I ended up with.” He grinned and slid his hand under Kenobi’s ass, giving one buttock a squeeze, making him jump a little.

“Talk about rewarding bad behavior,” Kenobi muttered, pulling his hand away and lacing their fingers together.

“Yeah,” Bruck agreed, mildly abashed.

“I can’t believe that’s all they’d haul you in for, Bruck. Or that you’d be so worried about avoiding talking to the Council about a misunderstanding that you’d act the way you have the past few days, or let Garen get away with what he did. It’s not like you. That’s not all, is it? That’s not what had you curled up on the couch retching a bit ago. Was it something else they said?”

Bruck looked away then, chin drawn down against his chest, one hand plucking at the material of his leggings, and said nothing. Kenobi reached out and tugged his braid, coaxing.

“It’s just me, Ben. I’m just—I’m getting cautious, I guess. Maybe I’m finally growing up. I feel like I’ve got a lot more to lose now than I did before. You’ve been good for me that way. I’m not so reckless . . .” He trailed off, as Kenobi shook his head, obviously unconvinced and disbelieving.

“That’s not it. Tell me. Tell me what came to you. What did you see?”

He felt the color drain out of his face. This was the one person he couldn’t seem to school his reactions around. “Please, Ben. Don’t. Just let it lie,” he whispered.

Kenobi let go his hand and climbed into his lap, straddled his legs and held his face gently, thumbs stroking the line of his brows. “Let me help, Bruck. Let me help you the way you helped m—” and was swiftly tumbled onto his ass on the floor as Bruck struggled out from beneath him in something that seemed a lot like panic to both of them.

“No! It’s not like that. Ben, just don’t. Please. Just leave it alone. All right? Please. Don’t make me explain it.”

But Kenobi was after him now the way he gone after Ben in that practice room, on his feet and in Bruck’s face, pushing him back down on the couch and straddling him again, pinning his arms and body. “No, I won’t just leave it. You woke up heaving, Bruck. You woke up scared and disoriented. I know what that’s like. When they’re that powerful, you can’t ignore them. The Force won’t let you ignore them.” Bruck struggled as he would have in a bout, but Kenobi shifted his weight in the awkward position and kept him effectively pinned. “Tell me. Is it past or present or future? Do you know?”

Finally, he let himself go limp under Ben’s hands and body. Part of him wanted to stop carrying this story around by himself, to let it go, even to someone on whom the implications would not be lost. “Past,” he whispered, looking away. “Fourteen years ago. I was eight. I didn’t even know you existed then.”

“Ah, Bruck’s life B.K.” Ben teased gently, kissing his forehead.

“B.K.?”

“Before Kenobi, dummy.”

That made him smile, despite himself. “A long, dry period,” he managed to joke.

“Go on, love,” Kenobi coaxed, taking his weight into his knees and bringing his hands up to cup Bruck’s face gently, stroking the brows once more.

He swallowed heavily and took a deep breath, as though he were going under for a long time. “Do you remember Col Grifalis? He was our age, but big for it—a heavy-world human growing up in lighter gravity.”

“The masters were always telling him to watch his own strength, so he was always overly careful, like he might break you? I liked getting paired with him in tumbling. He was really good at making you fly. Really nice, too.”

Bruck nodded. “We were friends. Don’t know why. I just liked Col and he liked me. There was another kid, Pesh Crellin—”

“‘Pest’ Crellin, you mean,” Ben added, making a face. “I remember him, too. Four or five years older than us, right? Personality like a rancor with a sharp stick up its arse? I used to call him Pus. Behind his back, of course. And not very loudly.”

“Yes,” Bruck laughed again, but even he could hear the bitterness in it. “Very accurate. Do you remember him disappearing kind of suddenly? He and Col?”

“Vaguely. It was smoothed over somehow, made to seem very normal. Something we shouldn’t bother asking about.”

“Yeah, well, it was anything but normal,” Bruck growled. “Crellin liked to hurt people. If he’d been anywhere but at Temple, I think, he would have been the kind of shit who tortures small animals. He used to pick on Col all the time, instead.”

“Because Col would never fight back.”

Bruck nodded. “Do you remember how insufferable Crellin got after he built his saber?”

“I don’t remember much about him at all, truthfully, Bruck. I tried to stay as far away from him as I could.”

“I think everyone did. Some people were just more successful than others. Col couldn’t ever seem to avoid him somehow. One night right before curfew I stumbled across the two of them in one of the practice rooms. . . .” The story spilled out of him slowly, by fits and starts, collecting momentum as he went on. Ben listened quietly, touching him gently though he hardly felt it, so lost was he in the memory. By the time he’d rushed into the practice room in the telling, Ben was holding him, rocking him a little, and a gag in his mouth couldn’t have stopped the words rushing out. “Col was trussed up between the parallel bars, Ben, and Crellin had shoved his saber—he did the same thing to Col that I did to you. Except that he didn’t disconnect the power source beforehand. The blade had switched on and spitted Col. It came out—” He retched again, felt Ben pushing healing warmth into him to ease his stomach, pulled the other young man to him and held him tightly as he shook, eyes squeezed tight as though he could block out the memory of that scene.

“I hadn’t remembered, Ben,” he choked, still gagging, “until the Council reminded me this morning. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I never—oh gods oh gods oh gods please believe me. . . .” he gasped, fingers digging into Kenobi’s flesh, his head resting against his chest.

Ben was disturbingly silent, cradling Bruck’s head in his arms and rocking him gently. Bruck pulled back and looked up into his face, catching a flash of . . . something that was gone as quickly as it came, making him wonder if it had been there at all. It made Bruck’s heart lurch nonetheless. “Ben, please, I’m sorry. I never—”

Kenobi stopped his words with a kiss, breathing into his mouth in a quick light puff, leaning back, kissing him again. “Shhhh, love,” he murmured against Bruck’s lips. “Shhhh.” Kiss. “You’re not Pesh Crellin.” Kiss. “You’re not anything like him.” Kiss. “You won’t ever be.” Kiss. “Couldn’t ever be.” Kiss.

“You’re not getting it,” Bruck insisted, capturing his hands and holding them away from his face. “I changed then, Ben. I wasn’t always such an asshole. I was a nice kid. Just a boy like the rest of us. Then I saw what happened to Col—nice Col, sweet Col—and decided nothing like that was ever going to happen to me. The creche master tried to make me forget what I’d seen, smooth it over like he did with the rest of you, but I couldn’t. Even the healers couldn’t make me. I had nightmares for tenths, even after they shipped Crellin off to Caor Caroli. And I changed. I got hard and nasty. I pushed people away. Then a couple of years later I met you, and I knew somehow that you were what I should have been, and I hated you.”

“Do you still?” Kenobi asked him quietly.

“What?” Bruck said, confused.

“Do you still hate me? Is that why you—”

“No! How could you think—”

“It’s all right,” Ben said gently. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t.” He slid his arms around Bruck again, pulled him into an embrace. “That’s too much to ask from anybody. No eight-year-old should have felt so unprotected here. I’m so sorry you did, love. But I don’t know how you couldn’t resent the rest of us. You learned what evil was much younger than any of us. Why didn’t anybody help you?”

“They tried. I wouldn’t talk about it. Kept telling them I was fine.”

“Gods, Bruck, you were eight. And it was obvious you weren’t fine, if you were having nightmares, if you changed so drastically. How could they believe you? No eight-year-old could handle that, Jedi initiate or not.”

“I guess I just slipped through the cracks. I think there was a shakeup in the creche staff about that time. Do you remember? A lot of the old masters were replaced, given other duties or transferred. I guess it was more convenient to just bury it.”

“Bury you and Crellin, you mean.” He could hear the fury in Ben’s voice and somehow it warmed him. “Ship the one off to the place they send all the fallen and crazy Jedi, and just throw the other away. Then Xanatos came along and told you that no one here really cared about you—something you must have already known—and that he would, if you’d help him. That was what happened, isn’t it?”

Bruck nodded, breath trapped in his chest, words choking him, wondering how Ben knew. “That’s how he worked,” Ben elaborated. “He tried to tell me the same thing about Qui, when we were on Bandomeer. He’d take the truth and twist it just enough to make you doubt. In your case, it couldn’t have taken much twisting. And how could you know better?”

“You did.” Bruck gasped.

“Because I’d been loved and taken care of all my life, Bruck. Not like you. Nobody threw me away. I had good friends. The training masters liked me. The academic instructors liked me. I got more praise than criticism, you got nothing but criticism. I remember. So, I knew I was meant to be a Jedi. I knew Qui-Gon was wrong about me. I know the Council’s wrong now, about you. They’ve set you up for failure at every turn and you’ve succeeded instead. Look at the odds you’ve beaten, love. And I never knew. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you were so hurt. I’m sorry no one cared enough about you to help.”

Bruck just nodded, too drained to say anything. He felt tired down to his bones, wondered dimly if his heart wouldn’t just stop if he went to sleep, with nothing to keep it going. Telling Ben had been like vomiting bile and poison, and he felt like he’d been spewing for days. He hurt everywhere, muscles and nerves and bone, and his brain felt numb. Yet he could feel the currents in the Force moving around him in a disturbed pattern. He knew everything had changed again, that he was in the cusp of some pivotal moment, but didn’t have the strength to even look for let alone recognize what he should push or pull or grasp or let go of to take advantage of it. “Shhhhh,” Kenobi breathed into his ear, though he hadn’t realized he’d made a sound. “Let me.”

Ben leaned down and kissed his forehead, then stepped off the couch and pulled him upright. He was too tired to protest when he was led to his room, and gently pushed down onto his narrow bed. He let Ben strip him down to his shorts and tuck him in and turn out the light, darkening the window as well. Ben’s voice came to him from the other room, speaking into the comm to someone, and he lay listening to the lilt of his lover’s voice as he made some kind of arrangements for something. Bruck had thought he would fall asleep instantly upon lying down, but it wasn’t until Ben came back into the room and nestled up behind him, slipping one arm snugly around his waist and the other beneath their shared pillow that he drifted off. “It’ll be all right,” he thought he heard Ben whisper to him before he fell into the snug warmth of real sleep.

 

* * *

 

He woke with his head in Ben’s lap, his lover sitting up at the head of his bed, back against the wall with a datapad in one hand and the other absently playing with Bruck’s braid.

“What’re you doing?” Bruck yawned, sitting up and rubbing the grit out of his eyes. He felt thick, as though he’d been out all night carousing. With the window darkened it was hard to tell what time it was, but it felt like early evening. Great. There went his sleep schedule.

“Reading a little Temple history,” Ben replied, wearing his thunderous, hole-boring frown.

“I love it when you look like that,” Bruck murmured in his ear. “When did you get so interested in Temple—Oh. How recent? Like, fourteen years ago history?”

Ben tapped the tip of his nose and went on reading. The frown got deeper. Bruck found his undertunic in the pile of clothes beside the bed, pulled it on and leaned over Ben’s shoulder, then gawked at what he saw on the screen.

“How the hell did you get that?”

“Cracked it,” Kenobi said shortly.

“When did you get to be such a big-time cracker that you could get into Temple records?”

“Wasn’t me. It was one of Qui’s second-gen padawans. Won’t tell you who because what you don’t know you can’t tell. Besides, I’ve forgotten her name, or that we’ve ever met. She did the downloads for me, onto a secure chip.” Ben grinned briefly. “I think she likes you.”

“Me?”

Kenobi nodded, briefly amused. “Did you know they called Col’s death a ‘training accident’?”

“Nice euphemism,” Bruck said bitterly. “Is that what they told his parents?” Ben nodded, reading on. “What’d they tell Crellin’s parents?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? What do you mean? They’ve never taken any interest since giving him up? Even my father commed now and then.”

“No. Apparently, they were glad to be rid of him. Crellin’s an Adept.”

“Adept at what?”

“Like Saesee Tiin.”

“Oh gods, Ben,” Bruck whispered, feeling sick. “No wonder they hushed it up. The last thing the Jedi need is a rogue Adept, especially that sort. Is he still in Caor Caroli?”

“Hard to say. We couldn’t get into those records. I would imagine so. He’ll probably be there for the rest of his life.”

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“So do I. It explains why they did so little to help you though.”

Bruck shook his head. “How do you figure?”

“One death explained as a training accident. One more or less orphaned Adept gone bad and sent off to Caor Caroli for life. And the only witness a very troubled and untrustworthy boy.”

“Why didn’t they just kick me out when they had the opportunity?”

“They want to keep an eye on you, Bruck. Keep you running scared.”

“So I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“So you’ll keep your mouth shut. And if you don’t, fix it so no one will believe you anyway, you dumbshit, troublemaking, pain in the ass. You did half the work for them.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bruck thought he ought to feel angry and wondered why he didn’t. What he felt, instead, was relief. For the last fourteen years of his life, he had known he was part of a game, but it was a game for which he had not known the rules. The actions of the adults around him, even of some of his peers, had seemed sometimes incomprehensible and left him feeling stupid and one step behind everyone else, always playing catch-up, or else completely mystified. Now, thanks to Ben, he knew both what the game was and how to play it. He was too grateful to feel angry. He’d gotten his footing and he knew how to act, what to say, how to behave—who to be.

He knew what the cusp was now, too, and knew what he had to do. There was more at stake than just his own knighthood. The Order wanted his silence. He would give it to them. The Order wanted his loyalty. He would give them that also, and gladly. What he would not give them was any more of his self-respect. Now that he knew what the game was, he would continue to play, but on his own terms.

Ben was watching him carefully, fully expecting an explosion, seeming surprised when it didn’t come. “You all right?” he said tentatively, as though worried about setting him off.

“More than I’ve been in a long time,” he said quietly. “Since I was about eight. That’s twice you’ve saved me, Ben. You know that?”

“I don’t understand—”

“Once at the falls, where you kept me from going over. And today, when you put my life back in my own hands.”

“I’m not sure that’s what I’ve done,” Kenobi said. “But I’m not sure what to do about it. It doesn’t seem right that this was covered up; that you were made to suffer all these years for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t know what to do about that either. It may be too late to do anything about it for anyone but me. But knowledge is power,” Bruck told him. “Now that I know what’s going on, things are going to be different, at least for me.”

“Not too different, I hope,” Ben smiled.

“Not too different,” Bruck assured him, hooking him around the neck and dragging him down onto the bed.


End file.
